


The Philosophy of the Snake, or Revenge of the Great Lestrange

by toroj



Series: Slytherinade [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Magic, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toroj/pseuds/toroj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Imagine a lion attacking a hunter. What happens then?' Snape answered the question with another.<br/>'It eats him?' said Sirith.<br/>'It gets shot,' Snape smiled maliciously. 'That is lion's courage, Gryffindor’s courage. They throw themselves in blindly, and get their heads smashed. The snake’s philosophy is different. Snakes hide in the grass and bide their time. Snakes are wise and prudent; they bite by surprise and vanish'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Philosophy of the Snake, or Revenge of the Great Lestrange

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Filozofia węża, czyli zemsta wielkiej Lestrange](https://archiveofourown.org/works/569357) by [toroj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toroj/pseuds/toroj). 



**The Philosophy of the Snake, or Revenge of the Great Lestrange**

(written by Toroj in a moment of madness)

Translation: Mantida

 

Severus Snape had been teaching for fourteen years, so he was an experienced and cold-blooded teacher, not easily disturbed by trifles – such as, for example, a dreadful scream, which could just be heard outside. He looked calmly in the mirror to check if he was clean shaven, and buttoned up his collar. The next shriek sounded from behind the door. Severus pricked up his ears. He counted to four in his head, allowing the students to settle the matter by themselves. Only his pupils from Slytherin could possibly be present in the dungeon corridor in the morning, and Snape had no intention of subtracting points from his own House. He was not insane yet.

A painful howl let him know that intervention was necessary after all, while there were still any survivors left outside.

He smoothed the sleeves of his robe, grabbed his wand, and forcefully opened the door of his apartment, adopting the 'Beware, the Day of Judgement has thus come' expression. The basement was filled by a black-clad group of young people, and the stone walls reverberated with the sound of many voices, most of them expressing horrified awe and excitement. Everything, however, was outcried by a desperate yell:

' AAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!! MYEAR... MYEAR... MYEAR...!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!'

Snape rushed into the cluster of students, pushing them aside. In the very centre of the commotion somebody's hands and legs were coiled, at the first glance in uncountable number. The next glance allowed Snape to identify Vincent Crabbe, lying on his back; across him some other boy was lying, pressed down in his turn by someone smaller, slimmer, but apparently very determined. At that moment both the attacker and the attacked were unrecognizable, since the heads of both were covered by a school robe, upturned in heat of the battle. Gregory Goyle was jerking the assailant by the arm, with the sole result that the cries of the victim acquired increasingly desperate tones.

'You moron!! Don't pull her, you'll tear off my ear!!!'

In a moment Severus put this layer cake together into one logical whole and identified the most probably owner of the washed-up jeans, patched on the seat with a piece of dragon skin. The patch was crossed with an inscription, carelessly scribbled in ink: KISS ME, LOSER.

Snape's face covered itself with a brick-red flush of anger, and, completely losing his self-possession, he whacked his wand straight into the jutted out tail and derisive slogan. And this at last dissolved the situation. Those rising from the floor revealed themselves as the already mentioned Crabbe, Draco Malfoy, pressing his hand to his left ear, and that nightmare of a first-year – Sirith Lestrange – smeared with blood like a vampire. Blood was flowing also between Malfoy's fingers.

'She threw herself at me, Professor! She bit off my ear! She’s insane!' howled Malfoy on seeing his Head of House. He looked even paler and more washed-up than usual, his eyes glassy and circular like a shocked rabbit's. Snape concealed his revulsion with some effort, assuming his usual coldly ironic mask. Honestly, the son of Lucius Malfoy could show a bit more of class! Lestrange spat out pink saliva and, disgusted, dried her mouth with her sleeve.

'Mister Malfoy to the hospital wing. The rest to breakfast!' commanded Snape. 'NOW!!'

The students departed hastily, stampeding like a herd of horses. One could hear them exchanging first comments about the incident.

'Not you!' At the last moment Snape caught the brat, who was attempting to bolt, by her collar. 'To the study!'

She blinked nervously, but allowed herself to be led. Severus was holding her robe tightly and was feeling more and more idiotic with every passing second. He did not remember ever losing his temper to the degree of striking a student. Even at Potter he had only thrown a jar. (Only once and he had missed, too, so it didn't really count.) He stood the irritating wench before his desk and stooped abruptly over her.

'So...?!' he asked menacingly.

Her expression was set and withdrawn. And again there was a nervous blink, a slight incline of the head that Severus could not stand for two reasons. First, he knew well enough what it meant. Second, he had seen an identical reflex in that bloody Potter, also in the first year: the learned reaction of a child who had been too often slapped in the face. He felt even worse than before. Damn, damn, damn...!! What the hell he was supposed to do with this maddening girl whelp?

Lestrange was standing with her eyes fixed on the floor, but her expression was still rebellious. Her right hand was holding her left elbow. Her robe, as usual, was unbuttoned. Severus involuntarily looked down – the brat's trousers were torn on both knees, and the holes were sewn up with thick pink yarn, provocatively tied into bows on the ends. The teacher thought that Lestrange wore her poverty with challenging contempt.

He sat before his desk and pointed his wand to the bookcase at the other end of the room.

'Accio Lestrange’s documents!'

A thin leather holder shot through the air, nearly brushing the girl's head. He caught it deftly in the air, opened it, cast a meaningful look at the mutinous student, and read aloud.

'Sirith Herma Lestrange, born on August 31 1984... Bad luck!' He grimaced. 'A hair's-breadth, and I wouldn't need to look at you for the whole year. Permanent residence: Fogbell, under the care of Mafalda Hopkirk Charity Society.'

Snape shut the folder with a loud clap, and demonstratively threw it into the waste paper basket.

'Do you know what that means?' he asked.

The child lifted her head. Snape had vaguely expected a long face and glasses misted with tears of contrition, but Lestrange, pale as death, only made a contemptuous grimace.

'I know,' she retorted. 'It's always the poorer ones who are thrown out, right?'

Snape ignored this.

'Why did you bite a prefect?' He put a special stress on the last word.

She shrugged.

'He's a louse.'

But a rich louse, Severus thought mordantly. If he had been able to, he would have gladly shoved that blasted prefect badge down Malfoy's throat, so that those little pallid eyeballs came up. Unfortunately, his daddy's connections and money still counted for a lot, and the school governing body did not want to withhold such trifling pleasures from the only son of the most generous sponsor.

'Listen, Lestrange...' Severus started again, now in a somewhat calmer voice. 'I don't know where Fogbell lies, but it's surely no metropolis. I rather suppose it's a rotten place on the lines of the infamous London Knockturn Alley. It's much better to come from there than to live there, so if you heard the fog bell, you should heed it and make use of your chance, instead of wasting it in this idiotic fashion!!' In spite of his promises to himself made only a minute ago, he shouted the last words, punching the table with his hand. 'Do you think those fancy ladies from the care society will be thrilled at getting an owl carrying news of your scandalous behaviour?'

'Can I sit down?' she asked in reply.

'No!' Snape barked at first, but changed his mind at once and pointed her to the chair. The little one was still pale and she was clutching her elbow; that caveman Goyle must have hurt her. She perched at the very edge, still gaping at the carpet.

'I repeat my question: why did you bite Malfoy? Why the hell did you rush at a fifteen-year-old who outsizes you by a head?'

She bit at her lips as if afraid that Severus would tear a confession from her together with her tongue.

'Even if you don't make a clean breast of it, I will know how it started at any rate. There was no lack of witnesses, and everyone would be willing to tell me. In detail.'

The child gulped.

'He was sneering at me,' she muttered. 'He said... he said I'm a beggar.'

Snape closed his eyes, sighing.

'He said I'm only in Hogwarts because of his father's charity, since it's he who pays for everything here,' mumbled the girl. 'And he was jerking me...'

'Enough,' said the professor quietly. 'Mister Malfoy forgets himself. I'm positive his father the great philanthrope doesn't pay my salary; neither is the cost of meals covered from his donation. However, you may stop eating desserts, if you are so high-minded,' he added ironically.

He pulled the documents out from the basket and put them back on the desk.

'You are suspended for now. How is your hand?'

'Sore.'

'You are  to go to Madame Pomfrey, then, and afterwards straight to the Slytherin common room. Don't move from there until the headmaster makes a decision about your case. Now, be off with you. And don't forget to brush your teeth,' drawled Snape. Young Malfoy may be poisonous, he added in his thoughts.

She nodded several times and went out without a word.

'Malfoy...' said Severus with cold fury in the direction of the ceiling. 'Draco Malfoy, pray that your father never goes bankrupt.'

**

 

Sirith's hand was still aching something terrible, but deep down she felt great satisfaction. She had shown that rat that nobody offends Sirith Herma Lestrange and gets away with it. She was also wondering if Sev would really send an owl to Mrs Leumann from the Charity Society. Those old girls from the Society were OK, but there were some things they just didn't get. They didn't understand that if you were a Fogbell kid, you couldn't afford sentiments, even if you were a little blond girl in glasses. Or, rather, especially if you were one. You needed _chrisma_. If you didn't have _chrisma_ , bigger kids would push you to the end of the queue. Sev must have understood this, since he hadn't even been shouting that much. Mum, when she had been still alive, had used the word 'masculine'. So Sev was masculine and had enough _chrisma_ for the rest of this bloody school.

Madame Pomfrey, on the other hand, was completely like the ladies from the Society: she was nice, caring, and... not quite worldly-wise. When it had turned out that Goyle had ruptured Siri's tendon, she had made more fuss that it was worth. She called Goyle 'a juvenile bandit' and Sirith 'a poor helpless little girl'. Sirith was inclined to agree with the former, but not quite so much with the latter. She felt as if she could still taste Malfoy in her mouth, even though she had brushed her teeth very carefully. Madame Pomfrey had fixed her hand with a spell, and had put a yellow jelly from pickled murtlap on her painful, swollen muscle. That was funny! In Fogbell, murtlap extract had been added to candies that made your tongue go numb. In Hogwarts, sweets were medicine!

Overall, Siri felt quite nice. Her hand slowly stopped aching, and she could eat her breakfast in the hospital bed, like a princess. Madame Pomfrey had brought her a blancmange, and then went away to her other duties. Sirith scrutinized the pale surface of the pudding, surrounded by a pool of raspberry juice, and sniggered maliciously. Malfoy's face had had an almost identical colour. The girl marked eyes, a nose, and a mouth, twisted in a sad grimace, on the pudding's surface with her spoon.

'I hate you, Malfoy,' she spat out the words with loathing, bending over the plate. 'You swine, you rat... rotter, jellyfish, horned toad... I'll scratch out your peepers and shove them to your yap!' She poked the pudding with the spoon, causing the juice to sprinkle on the blanket, and repeated the action several times with a hardened expression. The pudding was bleeding copiously with raspberry...

'Eghm...' a meaningful grunt could be heard. Sirith froze, with the spoon raised to another murderous stroke. The owner of the biggest _chrisma_ in Hogwarts stood in the half-open door of the sick room. He looked a bit stunned.

 

**

 

Drat, he had had no intention whatsoever of visiting that brat. She was not bedridden, and most probably Poppy would not find any reason to keep her under her wings for too long. But the position of the Head of House and a free half-hour before the lesson with the fifth year (ugh! ouch! Potter and the rest!) obliged him at least to inquire of Pomfrey after his pupil’s state of health. Malfoy’s state of health was no longer a concern of Severus – the blonde had already turned up by the end of the breakfast, with his ear raspberry pink, but whole.

Severus had not thought at all about the Lestrange imp on his way to the hospital wing (he was setting up the lesson plan in his thoughts), but even if he had been thinking about her, by no means he would have imagined the scene of an eleven year old murderess lacerating some remains with an expression of demented fury on her face, using an ominously shining metal tool to the purpose. Only after a few seconds did the terrified Potions Master realise that the red stains on the bed linen were not blood, and the jumbled mass on the tray was not human brain. With some effort he took a deeper breath and cleared his throat.

Lestrange froze like a photograph from the Daily Prophet. The only thing she lacked was a frame and a caption: JUVENILE MURDERESS.

'Don't you like blancmange, Lestrange?' asked Snape coldly.

'Egh...' she said uncertainly and looked into the plate. 'I think it's still okay.'

And she started to eat calmly and unconcernedly.

Snape sat on a chair by the bed, first scrutinizing it for stains of juice.

'Attacking Malfoy in public was really stupid,' he said in a low voice.

Lestrange shrugged.

'So was I supposed to let him off? Sure, I can see that a bigger half of the seniors toady to him, and the younger ones are all afraid,' she answered, stopping for a moment ingesting  blancmange.

'One doesn't say 'a bigger half,' Snape corrected her automatically, knitting his brows. 'And I'm not saying that you should've allowed him to push you over, but that you should have settled the matter differently. Come to me, for example. I'm your Head of House, aren't I?'

Sirith looked at him, her grey eyes cold.

'Yes? And what would you do to him, Prof? Give him a beating?'

'We don't beat students in Hogwarts,' answered Snape in equally cold manner.

'Nooo...?' She rose her eyebrows in imitation of his own ironic expression.

Severus kept his face immobile, but he felt his cheeks reddening with a treacherous flush of embarrassment. Lestrange had hit straight into the bull's eye of his greatest problem. He had hit her, but he could do very little to this spoiled brat as long as his father stood behind him. And, to tell the truth, few things would bring him greater satisfaction than giving Mister Prefect a good thrashing.

'Whatever I would do to him, it would not be biting his ear off,' he said dryly. 'It's not our style, Lestrange. Not out methods. WE are intelligent.'

'We?'

'Imagine a lion attacking a hunter. What happens then?' Snape answered the question with another.

'It eats him?' said Sirith.

'It gets shot,' Snape smiled maliciously. 'That is lion's courage, Gryffindor’s courage. They throw themselves in blindly, and get their heads smashed. The snake’s philosophy is different. Snakes hide in the grass and bide their time. Snakes are wise and prudent; they bite by surprise and vanish. Why do you think you got sorted in Slytherin? That funny hat doesn't throw dice or sing 'Eeny, meeny, miny, moe...'. If you got into the House of the Snake, it means you have suitable inclinations. So don't behave like a stupid lion cub. If you want to get up to mischief, at least do it in intelligent manner.'

Sirith nodded slowly, looking at him with something close to idolatry, which made him feel uneasy. Why the hell was he actually giving this lecture to a stupid eleven-year-old?

'Aha, so if I want a revenge on Malfoy, I should do it in intelligent manner, and not get caught?'

Snape gritted his teeth surreptitiously.

'I was speaking theoretically. Don't you dare to take revenge on Malfoy! To take revenge on Malfoy is stupid and dangerous. And, at any rate, how would you manage it, with his overgrown companions by his side all the time?'

'I still had a bite off his eat,' retorted Siri with inexorable logic and unconcealed satisfaction in her voice.

'Right,' drawled Severus. 'And you are sitting now with a compress on your arm and suspended from school. Plus, given the right circumstances, Goyle might have torn your hand off.'

'Like a troll...' mumbled Siri under her nose.

'I've never been in favour of physical violence. Psychological methods have always been my preferred venue, dear child,' said Snape sourly, rising from the chair. 'And by the way... You've got a week detention in the Potions laboratory. Perhaps cleaning test tubes will calm you down somewhat.'

'With you? Super, neat and cool!' the girl exclaimed with elation. 'Thank you!'

Snape was struck dumb. He managed to leave the room with a stony face, but in a state of mental paralysis. Only in the corridor did he begin to breathe deeply. He was aching for a smoke. With a manic expression he started to suck on a pencil he had taken out of his pocket. He had a terrible premonition that this imp would manage something the Dark Lord, the Golden Trio and several generations of brats had failed to accomplish – she would completely destroy his mental health.

He was also wondering about something else. Of course, there was nothing frightening about the sight of a brat abusing a plateful of pudding. The whole situation was actually comical. Severus had not know himself, at first, what the cause of the cold sweat running down his back had been. Still, he felt a throbbing pain of the bad memory somewhere close to his heart. Lestrange... Naturally, there were hundreds of Lestranges in England alone, and probably thousands in France. Sirith Herma Lestrange from Fogbell did not have anything to do with THOSE Lestranges. She could not have! Could she? But still for two nightmarish seconds he could see another face superimposed on the childish face of that terrible wench – a face of a mature woman, bearing an identical expression of fury and insanity. He knew now of whom she reminded him: she was a blond version of Bellatrix Lestrange, imprisoned since sixteen years in Azkaban. Thankfully, simple arithmetics gave the obvious, logical, and highly comforting answer – she was not HER daughter.

Otherwise, he would not have advanced two knuts for Draco Malfoy's life.

**

Unfortunately, Sirith had to make up for all lessons she had missed that day. That was why she was still sitting in the common room at ten in the evening, copying deadly boring notes from the History of Magic. Slytherin small fry started to crawl away to their dormitories; even a spirited game of Exploding Snap ended up, accompanied by hearty yawning. In the end, the only people still staying in the common room were Siri and a red-headed girl from the fifth year, cramming doggedly to OWLs. Siri was glancing at her with involuntary awe. Alexa Toran was certainly a well-built young woman, considering her age. She was playing in the Quidditch team as a Beater, and her killer strokes and scathing tongue assured that even the Malfoy's fanclub treated her with reluctant respect. Her nickname  El Toro  spoke for itself. So greater was therefore Sirith's surprise when she heard:

'Hey, kid... catch!'

She managed to catch some item in the air and only afterwards she identified it as a chocolate bar. El Toro looked at her with favour.

'You'd make a decent Seeker. You've got quick reactions.'

There was an ant painted on the chocolate bar's wrapping, but Alexa was nibbling at an identical sweet, so Siri decided to taste her own. It turned out to be rather sour.

'You want anything from me?' she asked. Nothing came free in life.

El Toro shrugged and smiled somewhat mockingly.

'Nothing for now. That snot Malfoy got on my nerves since a long time. Not only a bigmouth, but a rotten player too. He bought his place in the team for seven Nimbuses.  Marcus and I still wonder from time to time if the prize was not set too low. He sits on a broom like a frog on a wire.'

Sirith sniggered maliciously, sputtering formic crumbs around.

'We are impressed, at any rate,' added Alexa, moving her eyebrows in a meaningful manner. 'Nobody has trashed him so far, although many would like to. The Weasleys, for example...'

'Nobody?' marvelled Sirith.

'No student, that is,' the girl clarified, stretching herself comfortably on a sofa. 'There was of course that affair with old Moody...' She burst suddenly into laughter and could not calm herself for a long while. 'It was SO BEAUTIFUL!'

Siri, intrigued, could not turn her eyes from the older Slytherin girl. To tell the truth, she was gratified that one of the 'seniors' paid attention to her. After all, El Toro was really _someone_ , and here she was treating a first year with sweets and a friendly chat. El Toro had _chrisma_ , too, although obviously not as much as Sev.

'What old Moody?' she reminded her.

‘Well, last year we had the Defence classes with Alastor Moody, a retired Auror. Malfoy peeved him in some fashion. I haven't seen how it started, and afterwards everybody was telling something else... At any rate, when I came in, Moody was playing yo-yo with a white ferret. It was squeaking something terrible. McGonagall rushed in and bit his head off for maltreating a dumb beast. And then it turned out it was a transfigured Malfoy. When they lifted the spell, he looked like a wet rag and was half suffocated.'

‘Cool,’ said Siri with glee. Her vivid imagination at once projected the scene  before her eyes.

At the same moment the entrance portal opened in the opposite wall, and the Head of House appeared in it.

‘Bed, Lestrange,’ he ordered dryly. ‘It’s already past ten. Toran, I have found this book on Modification Spells for you. Take notes tomorrow.’ He gave the book had hold to the girl.

‘Thank you, professor.’

Severus’s black eyes  turned again to Sirith, who was collecting her handbooks.

‘Remember, tomorrow at four, in the Potion room,’ he reminded her and left.

‘What ‘at four’?’ Alexa asked absent-mindedly, leafing through the book and walking slowly in the direction of the dormitory door.

‘I got a detention for Malfoy,’ the girl explained.

‘Don’t be afraid, Sev only always looks furious.’

‘I know,’ she answered.

Lying in the quiet bedroom and listening to breaths of her sleeping neighbours, Sirith Lestrange was gazing in the dark canopy over her bed and kept imagining, over and over again, Malfoy turned into a ferret – skipping at the end of the wand like a furry toy on an elastic. She covered her mouth with her hands to prevent herself from bursting into loud laughter. How frightened and angry he must have been! Sirith recalled what Sev was telling her about snakes in grass, and her head started to assemble a scheme. A Slytherin scheme.

Severus Snape’s next day morning class was with Griffindor and Slytherin first year students. Nothing new: inept eleven-years old with clumsy hands and unfocused eyes, unable to concentrate even on a simplest potion. Thankfully no Longbotton this time, although destructive abilities of Amanda Lafferty almost reached Longbotton’s level. In only two weeks of her stay in Hogwarts she wasted a cauldron, burnt a hole through the table and her own shoe, and transfigured the boy sharing her desk into a marmot, confusing an incantation over an anti-cough elixir.

And Snape was supposed to fish a shining diamond of talent for the subtle art of potion making out of this murky pond of commonplaceness and mediocrity! Severus sighted silently. Such a happy occurrence had not happened since quite a few years. After the Weasley&Weasley twin pack there was a longish pause, and then that Granger girl. However, Granger excelled at everything in such an inhuman fashion that she somewhat disconcerned the Potion Master.

He never left the classroom door open – there were too many delicate instruments and costly ingredients inside. When the students were filling the room he noticed that something unusual was happening. The children were giggling surreptitiously, covering their mouths and whispering some secrets to each other. The Griffindor part was particularly agitated. Severus checked discretely if all his robe buttons are fastened and whether there was no trace of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. Everything seemed well at the surface, but the irritating feeling remained.

Only during the roll call, after he reached L, he happened to look at Lestragne’s desk, and then he understood. The troublesome brat’s school robe was, as usual, unbuttoned and underneath she wore a cotton shirt with a huge, eye-catching inscription ‘MALFOY IS A’… the remaining part was hidden under the table.

‘Lestrange!!!’

‘Yes, prof?’ her expression was of perfect innocence.

‘To call an older colleague, and a prefect into the bargain, a swine is not a done thing!’

Three quarter of the class could not stand it any longer, and squeaked in delight.

‘SILENCE!!’ thundered Snape, to the effect of almost mortuary quality. ‘Lestrange, I seem to recall we have already had a talk on the subject. Stand up!’

The impossible pup stood up with alacrity, with an ironic smiled plastered on her face. Snape read the rest of the provoking inscription and slowly rose one eyebrow.

MALFOY

IS A

FERRET

No, really… this was not what he had expected.

‘Button up!’ he growled ill-temperedly. ‘This is a school, not a tavern, and you should look decently, not like a trol–’ he bit his tongue at the last moment. The word ‘trollop’ was not fit for eleven-years-old ears, although he could swear that Miss Lestrange knew all its synonyms. ‘You should look presentably,’ he finished labouredly.

She followed his order obediently and the lesson went on in its normal course. Severus was able to regain his peace of mind during routine activities, that is subtracting points (from Griffindor) and terrorizing students. Even one more catastrophe (“If Titanic has been called Lafferty, it would have sunk twice as fast”) was accepted by him with a certain relief, as a thing within the boundaries of normality.

Sirith was basking in glory until lunch. It turned out Malfoy was disliked not only by the Griffindors and a certain part of the Slytherin House. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students were approaching her, too, to say a few words of approval, or even to treat her with candies. A complete success! Of course, those who were more friendly were warning her against the Malfoy Fanclub – the blonde was so angry that he almost assumed a pinkish shade, but Siri did not let that worry her. What could he do? Paint _Lestrange is a…_ something or other on his pale tiny forehead? If he tried to lay a finger on her, she still had her perfected ‘poor little orphan’ number up her sleeve, which worked beautifully on all the Charity Society ladies. A teenager from the fifth year hitting a little girl would have completely lost his face in the eyes of the whole school.

However, it turned out that she had underestimated the scion of Malfoys. When she was going to the bathroom (both conveniences, ladies and gents, were adjacent to each other), she saw a movement in the corner of her eye, and then someone throw a rag on her head. Someone’s hands grabbed her and pulled her inside, and she landed on the hard floor, pressed down by at least a few people.

‘OK, strip her!’ she heard a voice muffled by the rag. She howled in furious protest, and attempted to kick. In vain. She felt a cold touch of metal on her skin, and heard a sound of rending.

‘What a scrag!’ said someone and sniggered nastily.

‘Shut up, imbecile!’ someone else hissed.

‘It’s a warning, you stupid cow. It might get worse!’

Soon everything was over. There was a clang of the door being shut, and the released girl threw a dusty sack out of her head, coughing. She was shivering from cold and indignation, sitting on the icily cold pavement of the boys lavatory. Swines! Dirty swines! Stripes of her blouse were shattered around, too narrow for even the Reparo spell to mend. Luckily they didn’t destroy her outer robe. Siri put it on quickly, picked up the tatters of her clothes, and escaped as quickly as possible from the forbidden zone, before anyone could come and see her in such a humiliating situation. What was the most aggravating was that she could not even complain to a teacher. She did not see any of the assailants, and did not even recognize the voices. She could only suppose it was Malfoy himself with his cronies, and perhaps some lower-rank henchman, such as Blaize Zabini.

Still, a desire for revenge solidified in her like a block of concrete. She would get even with Malfoy, even if they were going to expel her from school. No! She corrected herself at once in her thoughts. Why her? Let that miserable rat be expelled! Snakes stroke suddenly and withdrew in time, that’s what Sev had said. And she was a ‘Slytherin snake’, right? She would get her revenge and nobody would catch her. Many wheels started to turn in the eleven-years-old mind of the seasoned Fogbell citizen, calculating ‘pros’ and ‘contras’ of different ideas.

She was still furious when she showed up to serve her detention. What somewhat surprised her was the presence of a thin, slightly pale and very dishevelled boy, sprawled against the wall near the Potions laboratory. Fancy that, the famous Harry Potter with his famous scar. Sirith has already heard all kinds of stories about him, even though she had never had an opportunity to see him that close up. Actually he looked quite ordinary – not a knutworth of _chrisma_ , and Sirith felt a bit disappointed. Griffindors were bragging as usual, telling tall stories about their hero. He just glaced at Sirith, and, looking dejected, again fixed his eyes on the floor, as if waiting in a queue for his own coffin.

Soon the Potion Master came in, opened the laboratory and invited them inside, in a malicious parody of  the gesture of the doorkeeper in the Gringotts Bank.

‘Make yourself at home. I’m sure you will find your time here very… engaging.’

Ugh! Sure they would. Sirith scrutinized the grimy classroom and deflated a little. All tables were sprayed with potions, and the epicentre of the biggest mess was on the opposite side of the professor pulpit – there also the floor and part of the wall were sticky. The brass sink overflowed with  a heap of carelessly rinsed flasks and test tubes, waiting to be washed up and put on stands.

‘Lestrange, Mr Potter will inform you on the whereabouts of the necessary equipment. He is very well acquainted with it,’ said Snape in a mocking fashion, and settled himself behind the desk, spreading it with rolls of parchments with essays to be corrected.

Potter sighted.

‘Start with the flasks,’ he told her in low voice. ‘I will take the tables.’

Sirith nodded with alacrity. He took the worse part of the work, but then he was older and bigger than her. Silence reigned for a while, interrupted only by sounds of scrubbing and washing, cracking of a pen and from time to time by annoyed snuffing of Snape, apparently coming across some particularly nonsensical fragments of essays.

‘Granger…’ he muttered at some point with revulsion, unwinding an over six-foot-long roll of parchment. ‘A bad case of verbal incontinence.’

Potter’s arms shook, as if from barely concealed laughter. At last Snape looked at the clock and stood up, collecting his paperwork. Siri hoped for a moment that they would be released, but in vain.

‘Accio wands!’ the professor barked, and deftly caught both magical instruments which flew out of the pockets of their owners. ‘Finish it here, and no magic…’

He went out, shutting the door after himself with the Clausus charm. Potter made a hideous face in that direction.

‘What got you shut up?’ asked Siri curiously. Those two obviously did not like each other.

‘An accident at Potions,’ the boy said briefly, inclining the dishevelled head towards the epicentre of the disorder by the wall. ‘What about you? I’ve never heard about Snape giving detentions to his own.’

‘He does, too,’ Sirith replied. ‘I got it when I bit Malfoy.’

Potter seemed to be filled up by heavenly light.

‘Gosh!’ he cried, brandishing the brush. ‘So that was you! A Slytherin who took a bite off her own prefect! I couldn’t believe it.’

‘Malfoy is a swine and a moron,’ Sirith pronounced forcefully, which increased even more the older boy’s cordiality.

They started to talk in a quite ordinary fashion: about teachers, detentions, Filch, how their common rooms look like (Potter had had a glance once at the Slytherin room), and in the end about the mutinous slogan slighting Malfoy. Sirith’s tongue loosened up and, not even knowing when, she told him about the incident in the bathroom. Potter looked at her sympathetically.

‘You are lucky they didn’t beat you up. That’s typical for Malfoy and the rest: they always attack from behind.’

‘It’s because you’re like lions and you roar loudly,’ Sirith shared her newly acquired knowledge ,‘and we’re like snakes. We attack from behind and never get it in the neck.’

‘So you must be atypical,’ Potter grinned.

‘I’d like to strip this lout off, too,’ Sirith clenched her fists. ‘And let him run naked through the Great Hall.’

‘He-he,’ The Griffindor smiled to this vision. ‘There must be some stripping charms, but that would get you expelled before you could say “quidditch”.’

Siri finished washing up and started helping the boy to clean the wall from the effects of the cauldron’s explosion.

‘What about some curses or elixirs?’ she asked, suddenly inspired.

‘There seem to be elixirs for everything,’ answered Potter. ‘But if anything like that exists, it’s only our beloved Potions’ Master who knows about it… Or Hermione.’

‘I don’t know enough yet,’ Sirith was flustered. ‘You know, this school close to Fogbell wasn't really that good, and I’m still only in the first year.’

‘I’ll talk to Hermione,’ promised Potter. ‘She’ll think of something. If that’s for Malfoy, she’ll bring you the recipe or the curse on a golden plate. It’s the fourth year we’re trying to deal with that git.’

The next day Sirith was again serving her detention. The laboratory looked less hopeless that time, probably because the last class was had by the experienced Seven Year students. It was enough to wipe the tables and brush the scattered dragon scales off the floor. But then Snape decided to make an inventory of the ingredients. More and more jars, boxes and bundles were appearing from the cupboards: full, half-filled or entirely empty. Sirith had to fill up the containers, sort scarabs by their size, cut octopus tentacles, blanched from alcohol, into segments and do other things, equally disgusting. Soon everywhere there were clumps of hair, stinking asafoetida, and dried frog spawn, which persistently kept falling out of the carton packages. Sirith tried to chat with Snape, but he brushed her off with monosyllables. So she was sitting alone by the table close to the window, laboriously separating frog spawn from clotted unicorn hair, like some cursed goblin.

The girl’s attention was diverted by a hushed knocking at the window. She looked up and caught a glimpse of the dishevelled head, glint of the glasses and the forehead with a characteristic zigzag pressed to the pane, all against the background of the already darkening sky. Potter pressed his finger to his lips. Sirith glanced quickly at the teacher. OK, Sev was still burrowing in the cupboard, busily counting bottles. Apparently something was wrong, since he was producing sounds like an irritated whale (Siri never heard an angry cetacean, but she imagined it sounded similar).

She raised her thumb: all clear. Potter opened the window carefully and a paper ball rolled down the slanting window sill. Siri caught it eagerly. They exchanged meaningful glances and the dark head on the other side of the basement window vanished.

Burning with curiosity, the girl unfolded the paper under the table. She nearly got exotropic squint, trying to read and observe Snape’s back at the same time.

_H. found it. Curses are too difficult, but this you should manage. It is called Tempus Acid. If you need something, leave a message in the Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom._

The potion ingredients and the recipe were written below in a different hand. At the end there was a Roman three instead of a signature.

With her heart thumping Siri slipped the precious crumbled leaf into one pocket, and put a handful of frog spawn, listed as one of the ingredients needed for preparation of the instrument of her revenge, into another. She glanced quickly over the chaos on the table, picking up some useful trifles. Her mood improved visibly and she even started to whistle softly. Not “Bad”, since Sev was allergic to the melody, but the much more cheerful “Auror’s Girl”, and then “The Flying Carpet at 4.05”. Finally she started a tune she had known so long that she did not even remember who and when had taught her it:

_When winter calls and the wind won’t wait_

_Look through the rain see the leaves start to break_

_Once so alone like a prayer on the sea_

_Nothing to hide, so much there to see_

_Don’t be afraid_

_Don’t be afraid_

_The thoughts you wear like a long lost friend_

_Are buried so deep that you can’t see them end_

_You know spring will come just as quick as you need_

_And run straight to you when the dark nights are free_

_Don’t be afraid_

_Don’t be afraid_

_(a fragment of the poem by Graham Russell, Frank Esler Smith, replacing the original verses of Toroj)_

Sirith realized suddenly it was suspiciously quiet – Sev stood still, looking at her and listening as if spellbound.

‘I’m sorry…’ she muttered.

The man seemed to have woken from a dream.

‘It’s fine,’ he mumbled through the teeth. (He was still holding a pencil between them.) ‘I don’t mind.’

Sirith took up the difficult melody of the Muggle „Carribean Blue”, trying to sing as clearly as possible. Honestly, wasn’t this guy sweet?

**

In a few days she managed to assemble almost everything, the majority of the spoils coming from the detention thefts, but she still lacked dragon blood, a tooth of a Nile crocodile, a Mandragora leaf, and a mouse. Siri could not figure out what an ordinary mouse was doing among such exotic ingredients, but she still needed to get the dratted thing from somewhere. At a first glance, dragon blood seemed to be the most difficult ingredient to obtain, but it turned out the ‘Trio’ was able to fix even that, after the message the despairing Sirith left in the ‘contact box’, that is in the haunted bathroom.

It was not possible to pluck Mandragoras during the Herbology lessons – the seedlings reacted to every touch with a howl not muted enough by the soil, and professor Sprout was very protective of her little plants. And of course Mandragoras, as potentially dangerous plants, were carefully guarded.

A stuffed crocodile, on the other hand, was hanging high from the ceiling of the Potions laboratory, irritating and provoking by its presence. So during the last detention Siri undertook a bold venture.

**

Handing detentions to students brought assessable advantages, but supervising the brats so they fulfilled the imposed tasks and did not make even more trouble during the time was somewhat inconvenient. Severus was wondering whether punishing Lestrange with a detention as long as seven days had not been a too rash decision. But „a spell spoken is past recalling”. On the other hand, she behaved quite decently, did not ask stupid questions, slogged away honestly and did not whistle “Bad”. Severus started to harbour modest hopes that the brat started to behave and that they would manage to civilize her somehow during several years of teaching.

As it turned out, those expectations were overtly optimistic. To what extent, was made clear during the last detention, when Severus left the girl sorting quietly Belladonna, and went to deposit the corrected tests in his office. When he was back, the demon child  was balancing on the top of a construction built from a desk, a chair and an iron tripod. The Potions Master, opening the door, hit the precarious pyramid and brought the lot down on himself – accompanied by an agonized cry.

Severus was a tall and strong man, but a direct hit by a nearly ninety pounds living missile (its momentum amplified by the furniture) would have laid low even a person of a stronger build, especially since he was hit also in the “strategic regions”.

By reflex he grasped the weight falling on him, and hit the back of his head on the floor. A grainy grey mist, full of shining silver sparks, spread before his eyes. For a moment he was convinced he had been nailed to the floor with a red-hot iron bar.

Somebody was yanking on his clothes, and a pleading cry, growing more and more hysterical, could be heard through the grey curtain.

He blinked, focusing his eyes. Ugh! That hellish Lestrange was kneeling over him, dishevelled, glassless and deadly pale from fear. For the first time he saw her actually terrified, so far she had been only impudent or furious.

She sighted with enormous relief.

‘Sev, you are alive…’

‘I am,’ he raped through clenched teeth, raising with difficulty. ‘But you are DEAD! Who the hell let you call me 'Sev'? And what were you doing up there?!’ He growled.

‘I wanted to pat the crocodile,’ she answered submissively.

Severus’s arms fell down. He closed his eyes and started to count his breaths, felling that if he did not calm down instantly, he would commit  infanticide. His head was still slightly spinning.

‘Detention…?’ the girl ventured.

‘No detentionssss,’ Severus hissed. ‘Out! Begone! You’re dangerous for physical and metal health! Don’t come close to me at all!’

Lestrange sniffed, found her lost glasses and put them back on. She straightened her four-foot-eleven with dignity.

‘No means no!’ she pronounced boldly. ‘Sheesh, fine, I won’t intrude! Bye.’ Having said that, she marched out of the laboratory, still proud and pale, leaving somewhat confused Severus on the floor. He has an overpowering feeling that something seemed to have gone wrong and the scenario had been supposed to be different.

**

Luckily just before the disaster Siri had managed to extract the necessary item from the crocodilian jaws, and now it was sitting safely in her pocket. On the one hand, she was angry – it had not been her fault, after all, that she had fallen down (Snape had not needed to bang the door on the table), but on the other, she felt sorry – the guy had served her as a cushion and had been hurt much worse than she. Poor Sev! No wonder he was so furious. He had not even punished her. Although he might still think back…

What still remained a huge problem were Mandragora leaf and that damned mouse. In Fogbell it would be no trouble: she would have gone to the backery and had a look in the traps. In Hogwarts there were no mice, or at least she had not seen any yet. That is, except for two white ones, kept by Richard Barclay. Siri however was not certain whether they would be any good. The recipe said nothing about the colour of the mouse. And that stupid kid would bawl himself to death if one of his was lost.

She completed her homework with heavy heart and went to sleep in a cheerless mood.

She was waken up by a pat on her arm.

‘Shushshsh… ’ she heard in the darkness. ‘Don’t start to holler. Lumos…’

A little light, tiny like a glow-worm was lit by her side and in its glow Siri saw the face of El Toro.

‘Kid, we need you. Come with me?’

‘Where to and what’s for me in this?’ Siri asked coldly.

‘To the conservatory. What do you say for a bagful of Hogsmeade sweets?’

‘OK,’ muttered the girl. ‘But not the ant bars.’

Her heart beat stronger. The conservatories!

‘Dress up. I’ll wait by the exit.’

Sirith put on her clothes in the dark with the skill suggesting long practice. What however shocked her considerably was the sight of two persons entwined in a loving embrace in the salon. El Toro was kissing a boy! For a moment Siri took him for Marcus Flint and her stomach flipped uneasily. Bleh! Flint was a hulking, grim lump with heavy brows and ugly teeth. Fortunately in a moment Alexa’s beau revealed a face quite handsome and intelligent, and Siri put a name to it: Moon.

‘So this is this secret weapon of ours, right?’ the boy asked in hushed voice.

‘Right,’ El Toro grinned. ‘Move, sweeties! Or our little shop will close.’

Siri noticed that they both worn Quidditch costumes, clinging to their bodies and black, ideal for the night work. Apparently they were no beginners. Luckily her own clothes were dark, too.

The hallways were enshrouded in dusk. They were running on tiptoe, going in the direction of the door leading to the side courtyard and to the herbal kingdom of Madame Sprout. Moon was in the lead, followed by El Toro, and the miniature procession was completed by Sirith, trying to keep even with the long-legged teenagers. At some point the boy halted, sticking out his elbow to stop them. Siri saw him making a gesture which would have only one meaning: Cover!

Toran instantly squeezed into a shallow niche, hiding behind a suit of arms standing there. Moon jumped on the gallery rail, flattening against the column – in the dusk he looked like a strange, dark sculpture. Siri cowered and hid under a low bench. From her hiding place she could see some of the  hallway. She heard uneven, rasping steps, throaty cough and her eyes fell on the dilapidated boots of Filch. Rats!

She turned her head warily, trying to see Moon. The boy struggled to move as far as possible behind the column and was just about to fall a floor downstairs – on the hard marble pavement. Suddenly from afar they heard a sound of a drawn out and seemingly irritated mewing. Filch at once speedily turned away, dragging his huge boots.

‘I’m coming, Mrs. Norris, I’m coming…’ he squawked. ‘Damn these brats…’

Moon breathed soundlessly, grasping dramatically at his heart. To Siri’s surprise Alexa emerged not from behind the suits of arms, but from the side corridor. Silently she signalled ‘thumbs up’, and they went away. When already outside the boy ardently kissed the girl on her cheek.

‘Wow… And here I was sure we are found out. I could swear it was this dratted cat mewing. No way I would guess it was you!’

‘I had four years’ practice,’ answered El Toro cheerfully, and Sirith made a mental note to acquire a new useful skill.

They passed by the main entrance to the glasshouse. In the dim light shining from the wand’s tip El Toro showed the younger girl a small vent at the top of the glass building.

‘No use to try the door, since Flitwick put a protection there. Just any odd spell won’t help us, and we can even switch on the Supervision Curse. But there is nothing here. Can you try this window?’

Siri estimated the size of the vent. At the first glance nothing larger than a cat could get through it. But her experience told her that if she managed to cram her head through, the rest would probably follow.

‘No problem,’ she proclaimed with determination. ‘I should get in, but with no jacket, sweater… and trousers,’ she added less certainly. ‘It’s cold…’

It was the middle of November and it was freezingly cold outside, even though the night was rather clear.

‘Sugar quill extra,’ murmured Alexa.

‘Fine,’ Siri sighted, taking her jacket off, and at once snarled at the boy: ‘Don’t ogle me!’

‘I don't see anything to ogle,’ he growled back.

‘The cupboard in which Sprout keeps seeds is closed in an usual way, a simple Alohomora will do,’ El Toro explained calmly in the meanwhile. ‘Take a bag with a tag „Herba Scriptor” and a bottle labelled „Alo Hortus”. Can you remember?’

‘S-sure. Her-rba scr-riptor and alo hort-tus,’ Siri repeated, shivering from cold in her vest and panties.

‘Janus, let’s give her a leg up before she freezes.’

Two teenagers lifted the girl effortlessly, like a feather. Siri, her wand between her teeth, caught the brim of the window and wriggled inside snake-like. With some effort she twisted her body, and managed to fall on her feet. Luckily she did not come upon any flower pots. The inside was, thankfully, much warmer. The cupboard, the door, the bag, the bottle… nothing could be simpler, piece of cake. By the light of a very weak Lumos Siri found the shelf with sleeping Mandragoras and with a firm twist she torn off one leaf. A muffled wail resounded, as if of an upset, complaining infant bawling into a feather pillow. She hid the leaf under her shirt, together with the other spoils.

It was more difficult to access the vent from that side with no assistance, but she could use the table. Janus Moon caught her on the other side, before she fell on her head.

‘Great Merlin…’ he groaned. ‘Don’t you have bones at all? This hole is the size of a plate.’

He didn’t exaggerate much.

‘I'm Ssslythrin’s snake,’ mumbled Siri in reply, while El Toro was speedily dressing her in consequential pieces of clothing.

‘What do… you want it for?’ she puffed, when they were hastily returning to the castle.

‘It’s a secret!’ Janus burst in laughter. ‘You will know in three days, during the match with Griffindor.’

Fortunately they met neither Filch nor his tabby this time. Snape, often wandering over Hogwart like a one more gloomy ghost, was also nowhere to be seen. Sirith, tired but very pleased with herself, fell asleep like a log the moment she put her head on the pillow. All the necessary ingredients were sitting safely under her mattress. Apart from the mouse, of course, but she had already an idea how to procure it. And at any rate she felt uncertain about keeping a mouse – alive or not – in her bed .

If next morning someone happened to be close to the Argus Filch’s lodge, he or she would be able to observe an amazing scene. A tiny blond girl in dilapidated leather leggings was squatting in front of a matted grey tabby. Both creatures were casting assessing glances of professional poker players at each other. The girl was holding a slice of ham between her two fingers, dangling it before the cat’s eyes.

‘Don’t haggle,’ snarled the child, making a ‘Snape'ish’ grimace. ‘It’s a good price for one mouse. But bring it fresh!’

‘Mrroooh,’ the cat asserted contemptuously.

‘OK, two slices, but the second one later, after you bring the mouse to the Moaning Myrtle’s privy. And don’t cheat, or we won’t make any more deals.’

‘Mrau,’ agreed the tabby, took the ham and departed with dignity, her paws rigid.

Siri got up, wiping her greasy fingers on her trousers.

‘OK,’ she repeated. ‘The heaviest part is done. Malfoy, start crossing out days in your calendar.’

Brewing the Tempus Acid potion was quite easy in comparison with the effort spent on gathering the ingredients. One simply needed to drop everything into the boiling water, in the strictly determined order and precisely measured intervals. Siri borrowed a stopper watch from Alexa and smuggled all the necessary items to the quarters of Moaning Myrtle, the best place for this kind of undertaking. At least that was what the inhabitant claimed, pleased to have some company in her lavatorial solitude. Siri arranged all components in a row, lit the fire under the cauldron, and, with her eyes fixed on the watch face, dropped them in, one by one. For some reason time seemed to play an essential role here. The elixir assumed a sulphureously yellow hue, it looked normal – that is, equally suspicious as all magical concoctions. The girl, in accordance with the instruction, pulled it into a sprinkler, a keepsake from the time of her memorable throat inflammation. What remained was to go to El Toro, give her back her watch and act the next point of the plan.

Finding the girl turned out to be a difficult task. After a long questioning Siri caught with her on the top of the Sinistra’s tower. Toran was affixed to one of the smaller telescopes, which was however aimed not up at the moon, rising at the moment, but down – at one of the buildings.

‘Hi, Toro.’

‘Holla, kid,’ Alexa mumbled, her eye never leaving the eyepiece. ‘My, my… What a sight.’

The intrigued Sirith immediately pointed a nearby spyglass in the same direction. Some blurred, dark shapes moved across the oval frame of the objective, and between them a bright spot. The girl adjusted the resolution and there appeared before her eyes (or, rather, one eye) a well-lit window of the male dressing-room of Ravenclaw. Semi-naked captain of the team, Roger Davies, was whacking a team-mate with a towel. The team-mate was reciprocating.

‘You’re peeping at naked boys?’ Sirith was astonished. ‘I though you’re dating Janus,’ she added with some disapproval. El Toro’s interests seemed to her equally exotic as customs of some Bushmen tribe with bones in their noses. Was she also going to lose her mind to that degree in the fifth year?

‘I am,’ retorted Toran with stone-like composure, and shrugged. ‘And I’m not peeping, only spying on our rivals’ operations. Davies always draws schemes on a blackboard when they discuss their training. It’s not my fault they wash and change before.’

Sirith would have like to ask exactly how stupid El Toro thought she was, but she bit her tongue. Just now she needed particular good will of her older college.

‘What are you and Moon preparing for the match?’ she started a hare.

‘You’ll see tomorrow,’ Alexa answered unmoved, what actually aroused some respect in Siri. El Toro knew how to held her tongue.

‘May I have a look in your dressing-room tomorrow?’ Sirith asked in a semi-disinterested tone, even though her heart was thumping. ‘I’ve never seen how it looks inside. May I?’

‘OK.,’ agreed the Beater. ‘Drop by at half past one. We come before the boys, Jess and I, to change in peace and quiet.’

Sirith liked the Quiddich team dressing-room. There was the school’s emblem and the motto „Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus” painted on one wall with the silver-green banner of Slytherin and a lot of shining badges, commemorating victorious matches, were hanging by. On the opposite wall a large board was attached, probably for Marcus Flint to draw schemes when discussing tactics, surrounded by multitude of photos, on which green-dressed players were moving.

Toran and the Keeper, Jessica Boyd, were helping each other to put protectors, prattling at the same time about the game, weather, tomorrow’s classes and the physical attributes of the players of all four teams at once. Sirith was only half-listening to it. A row of lockers was standing under the highly placed windows. Sirith’s eyes were sliding along the name labels: Flint, Warrington, Moon, Pucey, Toran, Boyd...

 ‘We’re going out to the pitch to stretch out,’ said Jessica at last. ‘Leave, before Flint and the rest come in.’

‘Fine,’ answered Siri, pretending to be engrossed in watching the photos.

When the girls went away, her eyes returned at once to the last locker, labelled ‘Malfoy’.

**

‘It’s outrageous! Simply outrageous!!!’ thundered Pomona Sprout. She was standing on the gallery next to Severus Snape, pointing her finger accusingly at the pitch. The Potions’ Master’s eyes moved lazily in that direction. The grass, already yellowed somewhat from the cold and nightly ground frosts, contrasted with the bright green slogan, written by means of sizeable plants resembling dishevelled buttercups, sprouting thick, intertwined shoots, twisting into letters.

OUR BALL IS ON THE GRAS, WE’LL KICK LIONS ASS

‘You’re right, Pomona,’ said Severus coldly. ‘It’s really outrageous. I need to have a good talk with my pupils about their spelling.’

Mademe Sprout’s face reddened, calling to mind a wilted apple.

‘Do you know what it is, Severus?!’

The housemaster of Slytherin thoughtfully touched his protruding nose with his slim forefinger.

‘If my memory serves me well, it is Herba Scriptoris, commonly known also as „letter lettuce”. A popular decoration in house gardens,’ he explained with mild mockery.

‘Not particularly costly,’ he added tauntingly.

‘Its value is of no account here, Severus! A theft was committed in my glasshouse. It’s the fact which counts. A growth-quickening stimulant is also lost. Criminal instincts are stirring in the children, and you are laughing it off!’

Snape stiffened.

‘Criminal? Pomona, I don’t consider a petty theft to be at the same level as torture and manslaughter. There is such a word as “misdemeanour”. Therefore I assure you I will do my best to find and suitably punish the perpetrators of this _transgression_. If that’s all, let me go back to the students.’

Toran and Boyd were circling languidly over the pitch, waving merrily to all and sundry. They seemed to be in excellent mood, in contrast to the female part of the Griffindor team. Johnson, Spinnet, and Bell floated in the air side by side, each with her arms crossed at the breast. The match was apparently going be intense. Male representatives of both houses sprang out of the dressing rooms. Only after taking off the Griffindor team could appreciate fully the psychological sabotage carried out by mean of innocuous greenery. The spectators in the Slytherin gallery were beside themselves with mirth. Other Houses were stirred. Marcus Flint made an ironic salute to Angelina Johnson, who surreptitiously shook her fist at him.

A whistle of Margerita Hooch signalled to the competitors to assume their positions. The captains shook hands in the centre of the pitch, just above the lettuce slogan. Snape could have sworn that some very uncivil threats were exchanged at the same time, but the distance was too large to hear anything.

Another whistle – the balls went up. Flint at once got hold of the Quaffle. Lee Jordan started to comment on the game, his voice enhanced by the Sonorus charm.

Snape was watching the match with interest. He never played himself – not even at school – but he was fascinated by tactical aspects of the game. Moreover, every point won moved his House closer to the glory of the House Cup. Perhaps this year would bring back the run of good luck, interrupted by this bloody Potter turning up. Snape looked at the Griffindor Seeker and ground his teeth slightly. Absolutely everything in this boy got on his nerves, to the extent surprising even himself at times: his way of moving, speaking… imbecilic messy haircut and this idiotic resemblance to James… The son was equally impudent, conceited and egocentric as the father.

The Slythering team was good and had an excellent equipment, thanks to the generosity of Malfoy, Sr. The Nimbuses 2001 easily outclassed the Cleansweeps of the Griffindor team. Malfoy actually blurred in the eyes when he was crossing the pitch along and across, searching for the Snitch. He was quite a decent Seeker, perhaps as good as his predecessor – Higgs. Only, there was still Potter… Severus sent him again a hateful look. Potter on his Firebolt. Black must have gone certifiably insane, to buy the brat something like that for Christmas! Severus’s stomach contracted nervously when he recollected how much this “something” cost. A yearly salary of the Potions’ Master was flying over the pitch, just like that. Did this whelp realize on what he sat his backside?

In the meanwhile Potter was now hanging in the air like a falcon hawking for a prey, then instantly changing the position, avoiding the Bludgers. He made several incredible dodges around the pitch and again hanged for long minutes. He moved with the natural grace of a shark swimming in the ocean.

Snape hated him.

Moon and Toran tried several times to neutralize this Quidditch primadonna of Griffindor, but with no success. Even so, the score looked good – Snape looked at the board – fifty to twenty. Ronald Weasley, who replaced Oliver Wood as a Keeper, was not the best acquisition. He lacked experience and created an impression of someone impeded by his own legs and arms. “All the better for us” thought Severus complacently, his eyes searching for Malfoy.

In this moment his contentment was destroyed by a sudden agitation. Something was not right with the Slytherin Seeker. First, huge pieces of his green outer robe fluttered flapping towards the pitch. The astonished boy made a sudden movement and his arm protector fell down. Or, rather, fragments of the protector fell down. To make matters worse, he was hit in this instance by a Quaffle. Malfoy lost control over the broomstock, his hands – suddenly released from disintegrating gloves – slid from the handle and the boy was swinging under the broom, holding only by his legs.

Severus rocketed out of his place. He saw his pupil’s black costume literally falling to shreds on the boy. The racket on the pitch was cut by silvery sound of Hooch’s whistle as if by a knife. Severus nearly fell out of the stairs when rushing down. On the way he saw for a second the little Lestrange, her face showing apprehensiveness mixed with pure delight. He had no time to wonder about it.

Malfoy managed to land – clumsily, bashing his knee on the ground. Howling, he scurried to the dressing-room, losing the remains of his closing on the way. Severus rushed in after him, just in time to see also the boy’s briefs falling apart, and extensive blotches of nasty reddishness sprouting on his skin.

‘Under the shower!’ he shouted, seizing Draco by his elbow and showing him by force to the cabin, where warm water splashed at once on the shocked sportsman.

‘OUT!!!’ roared Snape towards the rest of the team, crowding the door. They obeyed.

Draco was standing under the shower completely motionless, and was only breathing loudly by mouth. Finally he overcame the apathy and switched off the water.

‘It’s those damned griffins!’ he stated hatefully. ‘It must have been them!’

‘How do you feel?’ asked Snape.

The boy fingered his arm.

‘My skin aches a bit. And I have a pain in the leg.’

‘Madame Pomfrey will take care of you. You’ll be fine. Towel and dress up.’

Severus could identify the results of the Tempus Acid elixir at the first glance. The timing of the acid’s action was set by an incantation, and even its preparation did no exceed the abilities of an averagely talented potion brewer. What was however a mystery was how the concoction was put on the Quidditch costume of Malfoy. The door to the Slytherin dressing room, as well as their living quarters, was protected with a password, and no outsider could enter there. Even the Peeves’s talents were limited. Snape would have gladly accused Gryffindor, too, but his arguments would have been thin like soup in Azkaban. Moreover, deep down he did not believe that Gryffindor players would have stooped to such a low trick. It was not their style, not to mention the fact that it had been a foul endangering the Seeker’s life. A fall from fifty feet would not have ended well.

Severus went outside, where the agitated students were waiting.

‘Everything is well. What happened is going to be established by the teachers, take no steps on your own.’

‘Did any outsider visit the dressing-room before the match?’ he asked.

Jessica Boyd spoke hesitantly:

‘Nobody really… Only this Lestrange kid came to look at the photos.’

Snape nodded slowly. There were moments when he really hated being a schoolmaster.

**

Sirith Lestrange knocked to the door of Snape’s study. Of course, being called to the Housemaster was never a particularly pleasant thing (who knew, he might have decided to go back to the matter of the crocodile), but Siri was deeply convinced that, as far as Malfoy was concerned, she was completely in the clean. She had already got rid of the sprinker, too. The effect was super cool, although not quite as she had imagined. Initially she had intended to hole up somewhere in the dressing room and sprinkle the potion on Malfoy’s everyday clothes after the boys would have already left to the pitch. The spell was supposed to work as late as the supper time. She had changed her mind later, striving for a more spectacular effect. It had worked. She had been really scared when Malfoy had nearly fallen out of the broomstick. She had wanted to make a fool of him, not to kill him. It hadn’t quite worked in this respect. On the other hand, the whole school was discussing the affair with excitement, and  malicious comments about Malfoy’s underwear were being made. She felt GREAT and pumped up with satisfaction.

‘Come in!’ she heard, so she entered, assuming her most attentive ‘expression number six’.

Sev was sitting, as usual, behind his desk.

‘I will be brief,’ he spoke, joining his finger tips and looking at the girl as if on an enormous worm. ‘I know it was you.’

Siri felt cold. She switched her expression fluently from ‘cute little girl’ to ‘polite interest’.

‘I also know I’m me,’ she answered obligingly.

Never changing his face expression, Sev banged his hand on the table, making her jump.

‘Stop this fooling, Lestrange. It doesn’t work on me, I’m not from the Charity Society,’ he said frigidly.

‘I did nothing.’

‘You had a grievance towards Malfoy. Nobody but you entered the dressing room. And for Tempus Acid a crocodile tooth is needed - I caught you hot-handed then. Better own up, because if you serve me any more of this claptrap, you will try my patience too much.’

Blink.

A step back.

Snape snorted with irritation.

‘Stop that. We don’t beat students in Hogwarts.’

Siri took a very deep breath.

‘You have no proof, sir. You only suspect something, and there can’t be any punishment for only suspecting,’ she pronounced.

For long minutes they were sizing each other up with their looks. Sirith had the impression that the _crisma_ of Sev was filling the whole room. She felt like a wasp stuck in a jar of syrup.

‘Have you ever heard about Bellatrix Lestrange?’ he asked unexpectedly.

Completely taken aback, she shook her head.

‘It was a very beautiful girl,’ Sev went on in icily cold voice. ‘Much less beautiful now, I expect. After sixteen years in Azkaban not only good looks are gone, but sanity as well. Now she is probably ugly and deranged. And she began just like you, Miss Lestrange number two: from hatred and reckoning only with her own advantage. People who start like this are taken by the Dark Lord, and they tend to end up badly. Are you keen on the career of a Death Eater, Lestrange?’

Siri shook her head again in negative. He must have gone mad… what one thing has to do with the other?

‘You acted to the detriment of your own House, Lestrange. You let down your colleagues, you deceived them. The Hat sorted you into Slytherin, but you clearly still think you are on your own. Are we supposed to create a separate House for you? The match was annulled. Fifty points won by our team are gone. This is your debt you should work out. Go and start working for the common good. I will be watching you. Goodbye.’

 You could either worship this guy or hate him to death. He simply left no leeway.

**

When the brat was going out, she was white like a sheet of paper. Perhaps something got to her in the end. Severus rubbed his tired eyes. He got up and went to his own apartment, to the bathroom, where he washed his face. Damn it, the only thing worse than this wretched job were the actions of the Black Circle. Lestrange, Lestrange... why on earth he had been preaching  sermons to a guttersnipe who probably understood only the stick and carrot approach? But then he had been just the same – he could remember it well enough – a teenager who considered himself not only self-reliant and adult, but old and bitter. And so he remained to these days.

‘Sev, you should make a recording in a crystal ball, and listen to your own words of wisdom,’ he growled ironically to the mirror. ‘Especially to this bit on hatred.’

‘Idiot,’ answered his reflection with mild long-sufferance.

The end (temporary)

 


End file.
